


The Hell in Me

by AZombieWrites (EgorStandish)



Category: Crossing Lines
Genre: Angst, Episode: s03e05 Recoil, Gen, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-21
Updated: 2018-11-21
Packaged: 2019-08-27 00:36:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16691992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EgorStandish/pseuds/AZombieWrites
Summary: Michel Dorn didn’t like the feeling of guilt, the emotion created after learning of the repercussions caused when he’d asked Inspector Wilkinson to interview Carlo Pacetti, the Inspector’s past revealed to members of the ICC.





	The Hell in Me

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** Based on characters created by Edward Allen Bernero.
> 
> **Author's Notes:** Missing scene for S3 E5 Recoil'.

Dorn didn’t like the feeling of guilt, the emotion created, evolving after learning of the repercussions caused by suggesting that Wilkinson would be able to get Carlo Pacetti to implicate himself in the death of his father. A moment of empathy revealing Wilkinson’s past; a violent father, a battered mother and a young man - possibly a child - standing up to a man who was no doubt capable of inflicting harm and injury to those who stood in the way of his anger.

Reminded of Wilkinson’s military background, Dorn had been confident Wilkinson could use his experience to break through Carlo’s stubborn refusal to bend and break under the thumb of military school discipline. He had thought Wilkinson could find a way around Carlo’s knowledge of the law to gain a confession. With Wilkinson’s background and Carlo’s military schooling, he had thought the two men had something in common.

He didn’t realise until too late how much they did have in common.

They shared more than common ground. There was a sharing of pain, of brutality . . . of vulnerability and fear.

Dorn had seen the expression Wilkinson wore when the man left the interview room, Wilkinson’s features slumping with emotion. He was unsure of the exact cause; a past remembered or a feeling of guilt, a threat to arrest Carlo’s mother securing a confession. Possible it was both. 

He’d watched as Arabela approached Wilkinson, a subtle grip on the man’s wrist as she asked if he was okay. Wilkinson hadn’t spoken, remaining silent as he nodded that he was fine before walking away. Dorn knew it was a lie, the man’s body language telling Dorn a different story. Confident Arabela was able to see the lie for what it was . . . a refusal to admit he wasn’t okay, Dorn stood back, waiting, expecting Arabela to follow Wilkinson, surprised when she didn’t, no doubt giving Wilkinson the space she obviously thought he needed.

Dorn wasn’t inclined to do the same, a need to relieve his feeling of guilt, to apologise for bringing back childhood memories . . . a need to make sure Wilkinson was all right. Moving past Arabela, he brushed fingertips across her upper arm, a touch of understanding, of reassurance, as he followed Wilkinson through the corridor and into the main area of the ICC. He expected the man to go somewhere quiet, a moment of contemplation . . . a moment to pull himself together. He didn’t expect Wilkinson to head to the elevators, to step in the first available one. Wilkinson was leaving, without his suit jacket, with the file full of medical information still in his left hand.

Waiting for the elevator to begin its decent, Dorn watched Wilkinson through the elevator’s glass frame. He felt confused, uncertain what Wilkinson was doing, uncertain where the young man was going. Dorn took the next elevator. As he stepped out into the lobby, he searched for Wilkinson, gaze quickly finding the young man. Dorn could feel his own guilt growing, understanding he had caused the dark cloud he could see wrapping its way around Wilkinson, the younger man’s shoulders hunched forward, his head low, his gaze lowered, refusing to acknowledge those he passed as he made his way out of the building and into the main courtyard, the area lit up with outdoor lighting.

Wilkinson looked vulnerable, like a child in a man’s body. Dorn believed his assumption was correct, Wilkinson reliving his past, painful childhood memories in control. He now understood why Wilkinson had left the building, more time required to regain control, the man wanting to deal with emotions alone and in private, no interruptions expected or wanted.

Dorn followed, his confidence faltering, the apology brewing at the back of his mind pausing. He knew what he wanted to do, what he wanted to say, his remaining confidence ripped away as he watched Wilkinson find a dark corner in the courtyard, sitting down on a bench hidden in shadows, shifting into a position similar to the one he’d walked with; shoulders hunched forward, his head lowered, his gaze staring at the ground in front of him.

When he had first met Inspector Luke Wilkinson, Dorn wasn’t sure about the man’s character, Wilkinson quickly clashing with Berger, but Dorn couldn’t fault the man’s response to the knowledge of Berger tapping his phone without a court order or his consent. Dorn did find fault with the realisation that Wilkinson held a grudge against Berger, unwilling to forgive or forget the invasion into his professional and private affairs.

In the weeks following the re-formation of the Cross-Border unit, Dorn had watched not only Wilkinson but also Inspector Marco Constante, neither man familiar to him, Dorn only aware of Constante’s experience with finding missing persons, the reason Dorn had contacted Constante, asking the man to help find Sophie Baines. 

He knew Constante was a man who felt anger, but he didn’t know why. He suspected Carine did and accepted her assurances that Constante was good for the team, that they needed him. Dorn understood anger wasn’t good for the team or for Constante, but he had decided to wait and watch, hoping the man would prove Carine’s decision to convince him to stay with the Cross-Border unit was the right one.

Wilkinson was a different matter. There was something about him that didn’t sit well with Dorn, something that caused doubt, not in his abilities – the man was physically capable, well trained and intelligent – but in his personality. Dorn wasn’t sure he was a good addition to the team. The man had more than one side to his personality. There were days where he seemed cold, able to kill or injure without a show of remorse or guilt, no doubt a trait required to kill from a distance, to kill a man or woman who wasn’t trying to kill him.

Dorn remembered that moment in the helicopter, the moment when he had to rely on a man he barely knew . . . to rely on Wilkinson’s skill as a former military marksman to save the life of Sophie Baines. The man had conveyed confidence, his limbs steady as he took the shot. After the kill was made, Wilkinson’s expression revealed very little, only acceptance with what he’d just done; he’d taken a life to save another.

There were days when he seemed distant, quiet, alone, only drawn out of solace by Arabela’s teasing, Wilkinson reacting with a child-like expression of embarrassment that made him more relatable, more likable. There were days when Wilkinson didn’t smile very much, didn’t laugh, Dorn understanding there wasn’t a lot of joy with the work Wilkinson and the rest of the Cross-Border team did, each member dealing with the repercussions of the job in their own way; there was no joy in the death and violence they saw every day. 

But there was something he saw in Wilkinson that gave Dorn hope. He had watched the way Wilkinson worked with Arabela and it didn’t take long to notice they worked well together. It was a partnership full of confidence, trust, skill and experience. Dorn knew Arabela was a good judge of character, Dorn fully aware she liked the man, but he was unsure why she liked him. But he trusted Arabela and she trusted Luke Wilkinson. For now, that was good enough for Dorn.

He continued to move forward, Wilkinson now only a short distance away, Dorn close enough to see the man in the diminished light, Wilkinson’s profile causing Dorn concern, the young man’s expression familiar. Dorn frowned, Wilkinson suddenly reminding him of the downside of working with death, with the victims of violence, the realisation they weren’t always able to get justice for a victim or their family. Wilkinson’s expression, his body language reminded Dorn of the men and women who had broken under the strain of the job, of those who had taken their own lives because they could no longer cope with the evil of humanity. 

Michel Dorn had seen too much in his life; he’d seen war, he’d seen the atrocities committed against others. He knew Wilkinson had spent five years in the army before joining the London Metropolitan Police. Feeling a moment of empathy, Dorn could feel the knot of doubt he felt about the man unravel. He could now understand the man’s coldness toward death and violence. Understood why there were days when Wilkinson was distant, quiet.

Dorn understood he and Wilkinson had something in common . . . they’d both seen the atrocities of war; their experiences different from each other, a different level of violence, a significant difference in the number of casualties . . .

They had something in common.

But Dorn knew Wilkinson wasn’t thinking about the job or his life in the military. Wilkinson was thinking about his childhood, his family . . . the violence his father inflicted on his mother. Dorn felt a pull of anger toward Wilkinson’s father, of sadness toward his mother, of sympathy for the child who had to grow up too quickly. He remembered what Wilkinson had said to Carlo Pacetti . . .

“ _I had to protect my mum_.”

Dorn felt a need to know how Wilkinson had protected his mother. Had he used violence, fighting back against a man who was bigger and stronger than the child? Had he threatened to tell someone if his father didn’t stop? Had he threatened to call the police . . . or had he put himself in harm’s way, taking a beating meant for his mother.

Dorn stopped beside Wilkinson, understanding so much more about the man than he had in the weeks since Wilkinson had been brought in because of a connection to the case they were working on at the time. Dorn watched him for a moment, waiting for Wilkinson to acknowledge his presence but the younger man remained still, silent.

His voice soft, Dorn said, “Wilkinson?” 

He could see the tension filling Wilkinson’s shoulders as the man lowered his head further, turning his face away from Dorn. He wanted to ask Wilkinson if he was all right, empty words, no answer required, Dorn aware Wilkinson wasn’t all right when he left the interview room. Instead he sat down next to the man and waited for Wilkinson, his silence forcing the younger man to talk.

“I just need a minute,” said Wilkinson, his voice rough, his body slumping, the tension falling from his body.

“I’ll wait until you are ready.”

Turning his head toward Dorn, not enough to reveal his features, Wilkinson took a deep breath, released it slowly and said, “Ready for what?”

“Until you are ready to talk about what you revealed during your interview with Carlo Pacetti.”

Wilkinson shook his head in denial. “I don’t think I’ll ever be ready to talk about that.”

“In that case, I would like to apologise . . . when you are ready.”

This time, Wilkinson did look at him, an expression of confusion as he stared back at Dorn. “Apologise? Why?”

Ignoring the pain he could see in Wilkinson’s green eyes, Dorn said, “It was not my intention to cause you pain . . .” Dorn hesitated when Wilkinson snapped his gaze away and lowered his head, his features hidden in the shadows once more. “If I had known, I would not have suggested that you talk to Carlo. I am truly sorry.”

“You think you did this?”

“If I hadn’t suggested--”

“My father did this, not you.”

“What I did brought back childhood memories.”

“Those memories never left.”

Dorn didn’t know what else to say, words already spoken not helping. He wanted to comfort but didn’t know how. Wanted to sympathise but knew sympathy wasn’t the right emotion to convey to a man who didn’t want sympathy. He wanted to understand but couldn’t, lacking experience in such matters, his parents never violent. Dorn wanted to tell Wilkinson that he would feel better given enough time, but he now knew the pain had always been with Wilkinson, that it would always be with him. He wanted . . .

“I saw the way Carlo was with his mother,” said Wilkinson as he sat up, leaning back.

Dorn shifted his body, turning so he could face Wilkinson. “You said you were the same with your mother.”

“He loves his mum,” said Wilkinson. “He wants to protect her. What I did in there . . .”

Dorn frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“I know what they’ve been through. I know what it’s like. I even understand why he did it, but I used Carlo’s relation with his mother to get him to confess.”

He’d been wrong, assuming Wilkinson was thinking of his past, of the violence committed against his mother. Memories were only a fragment of the pain surrounding the man next to him, anger playing a major part. Dorn turned away, a moment’s thought, remembering words spoken in an interview minutes earlier, every word still in his memory. 

Wilkinson had gone into the interview with a plan, with a folder full of medical records. He had known what it would take to get the young man to confess, something he could have passed on to another member of the team, someone who could have carried out the interview. But he hadn’t. He’d known it would take more than medical records, more than knowledge of Gianni Pacetti’s violence . . . Wilkinson had known it would take empathy, a shared experience. He knew he would have to make a connection with Carlo and he did; both men loved their mothers; both men would do what they thought necessary to protect them. 

One killed to protect.

The other stood up to a violent man to protect.

But Wilkinson had used more than the relation between mother and son against Carlo. He had also used the young man’s relationship with his father. Wilkinson had sided with Gianni Pacetti. He’d agreed with the boy’s father, told Carlo he was weak . . . weak to allow the police to arrest his mother for murder. They both knew his mother was not involved in the death of her husband, but Wilkinson had known the truth; Carlo wasn’t weak, the young man doing what he thought was right, doing the only thing he thought he could do to protect his mother. Wilkinson knew Carlo would confess when he threatened to arrest his mother, that much was obvious when Wilkinson stood beside the door, waiting . . . expecting a confession.

“You’re angry with yourself,” said Dorn, looking back at Wilkinson.

“A bit, yeah,” said Wilkinson.

“You did what had to be done,” said Dorn. “I do not fault you for doing what you did.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better.”

“It shouldn’t.”

When Wilkinson looked at him with an expression of confusion and doubt, Dorn continued. “Your reaction to what you had to do only proves me wrong.”

“In what way?”

“I was wrong about you,” said Dorn, hesitating, waiting for his admittance to be absorbed into a confused mind. “I must admit that I wasn’t sure about you. I was not sure you would be a good addition to the team. Oh, you are very intelligent, very skilled in marksmanship and I believe you would be handy in a physical altercation but . . .”

“Please,” said Wilkinson, “don’t hold back.”

Dorn smiled, the sarcasm a good sign. “But I was not sure of your personality. I considered you to be unsympathetic, unrelatable and you tend to hold a grudge against those you work with.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

“I’m certain,” said Dorn. “Did you know you and I also have a shared experience. We’ve both seen war and what it does, on a different scale of course. I know I have days where I’m distant and quiet. Days when I do nothing but remember . . . it is not easy.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“I have a better understanding of you now, Wilkinson. I may even begin to like you.”

Wilkinson nodded as he sat back, his head up, gaze forward. Dorn could tell his words, the emotion behind the words had made an impact, some of the pain gone from Wilkinson’s mind, his body no longer slouching, a more confident stance but he wasn’t done, something else on his mind, something else he wanted to say to the young man beside him. 

“And I am still sorry.”

Wilkinson turned his head to look at Dorn. “Why?”

“I am sorry for what you went through as a child. I am sorry for what your father did and the pain he caused you and your mother. I am sorry that it was left to you to protect your mother. I am sorry it still causes you pain.” Dorn didn’t expect an answer; he didn’t get one, Wilkinson remaining silent. “Will you be all right?”

Wilkinson nodded, nothing more said. Nothing more needed. Dorn stood up, hesitated before wrapping his fingers over Wilkinson’s left shoulder, a tight grip of support before moving away, walking back toward the entrance of the building housing the ICC. He knew Wilkinson would soon follow, more work to be done. He would continue to watch Wilkinson, for no other reason but to make sure he was all right, to intervene on the days he was distant, quiet . . . the days he would need more than Arabela’s teasing to bring him back. Perhaps, when Dorn suffered his own dark memories, he would seek out Wilkinson, talk to someone who understood the memories, someone who would empathise with an old man.

Dorn entered the building, surprised to find Carine waiting in the lobby. He walked up to her, past her, his movements slow as she caught up and walked beside him.

“Is he all right?”

“He’ll be fine,” said Dorn as they walked toward the elevators. “He has a good head on his shoulders, especially considering what he’s been through in life.”

“We all have a past, Michel.”

“Yes, some more than others.”

 

The End.


End file.
